


all we get when we're together

by SiderumInCaelo



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Mutual Non-Con, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Trope Subversion, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 13:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21254417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiderumInCaelo/pseuds/SiderumInCaelo
Summary: Martha starts pacing, unable to just stand there.  No one’s coming to rescue them.  They can’t escape.  There’s no convenient loophole to exploit.  Either they can have sex now, or they can wait a day and have sex after they’ve been drugged.  That’s it.She knows the Doctor, clever as he is, understands this too.  He probably knew as soon as he read that stupid booklet.  But for once, he doesn’t seem very inclined to say anything.Ten and Martha land on a planet where they're forced to have sex with each other.  It's exactly as awkward and uncomfortable and miserable as you'd expect.





	all we get when we're together

**Author's Note:**

> If you saw the "Explicit" rating and are looking for fun sexytimes, this fic isn't for you. If you're looking for Ten and Martha getting together in the end, this fic isn't for you either. But if you're looking for bucketloads of angst and a graphic, extremely uncomfortable forced sex scene, then you're in luck.
> 
> The title is taken from the song "We Don't Have Fun When We're Together Anymore" by Tegan and Sara.

Somehow, Martha had always though they’d manage to escape unscathed.

It feels like a stupid assumption, now that she’s put it in so many words. It’s practically a given that they’ll end up neck-deep in chaos and danger wherever they go, and it rarely ends with a body count of zero. But she’d gotten used to being faster or cleverer than the monsters, and let it lull her into her into a false sense of security. 

This trip had started much the same as others – they had landed on a new planet and roamed around, the Doctor spouting off information about the planet’s native life forms, what it had been like in the past, what it would be like in the future, while Martha hurried beside him and tried to take it all in. Then they’d been ambushed by some of said life forms and abducted, which was less nice but still not exactly anything new. The place they were taken to was nice, more like a hotel room than a cell (other than the locked door) and they weren’t separated from each other – so, still one of their more successful adventures, Martha had even thought.

The alien who escorted them to the room said they’d be released after they read the booklet on the bedside table and followed its instructions. Weird, undoubtedly, but not immediately concerning.

The first sign that something’s wrong is that the Doctor goes silent and still after flipping open the booklet. He doesn’t explain what it says, just keeps reading. Even when he gets to the end and closes the booklet, he doesn’t move until Martha speaks.

“Doctor?” she asks, uncertain.

He hands the booklet to her wordlessly.

The cover of it says _The Institute of Multispecies Sexuality Research_, and that’s when Martha knows this isn’t going to be a normal misadventure.

She opens it and reads on.

_The Institute was founded to study the mechanics of sexual relations, across as many species as possible. In pursuit of that goal, all visitors to our planet are required to have sexual intercourse within an Observation Room._

She’s sure her eyes are playing tricks on her, so she reads it a second time, then a third. The words stay the same.

“They want us to have sex,” Martha says, half-expecting the Doctor to say no, it’s a horrible joke or misunderstanding, because the alternative is unfathomable. 

He doesn’t. He just nods, not looking at her.

“And if we just refuse to?” she asks, panic creeping into her voice.

“Keep reading,” he says.

She flips a few pages until she sees the heading _Methods to Ensure Compliance:_

_We hope that all participants will recognize the value of our research and cooperate with us. To make the task as comfortable as possible, we have provided a bed, lubrication, birth control and prophylactic options, and a variety of pornography and performance-enhancing drugs for you to utilize, if you wish. If you require any additional equipment, please contact a research assistant and we will do our best to accommodate you. There is also no time limit, and food will be provided, if desired. If sexual intercourse has not been completed within 24 hours, a gaseous aphrodisiac will be pumped into the room, the concentration slowly increasing until effective. (If you have any known drug allergies, please let a research assistant know.)_

An aphrodisiac? To lose her sense of control, to be forced to want something, some_one_? That’s even more awful to contemplate than the sex. Martha frantically thinks for a loophole. Maybe they could fake it? What even counts as sex to these people, anyway? She reads further.

_For the purposes of this research, “sexual intercourse” is defined as activity that, when done between fertile individuals, could lead to procreation. For most humanoid creatures, this means ejaculation into the vagina. Subjects are allowed, even encouraged, to perform non-procreative actives as well, but it is not required. Multiple high-definition cameras and sensitive microphones are located in the Observation Room to monitor the subjects’ activities. (For information on how this data will be used and stored, please see the Appendix.)_

No no no no no, they can’t make her – make them – do this, they _can’t_, there has to be a way out –

_Think, Martha, think_, she tells herself. These people seem to have some sort of ethical and safety standards in place, so maybe…

The Doctor still hasn’t moved or spoken, and Martha doesn’t want to even discuss this with him if she doesn’t have to. She walks over to the intercom-like thing by the door, noticing in her peripheral vision that the Doctor turns to see what she’s doing. 

“Hello?” she says after she presses the button.

“Hello,” a cool voice says. “What can I assist you with?”

“I understand you want us to participate in your research,” she says, trying to sound calm, “but I have a heart problem that makes sexual activity unsafe.” She suddenly wishes she had more practice lying. 

“I will do a medical scan of you and your companion,” the voice says. A beam of light emanates from the corner and sweeps Martha and the Doctor. “No medical problems detected,” the voice intones. 

“No,” Martha insists, “you’re wrong, I want a second opinion, please –”

“Our medical scan is 99.99% accurate. No second opinion is needed.”

Martha turns helplessly to the Doctor. “It was a good try,” he says, but his tone is all wrong, distant and flat.

“We could escape,” Martha tries, knowing as she says it that it’s hopeless. They were searched on the way in and the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver was confiscated, she counted at least three locked doors on the way in, and they’re under constant surveillance.

“I’m sorry,” is all the Doctor says, like he knows he doesn’t have to explain. 

Martha starts pacing, unable to just stand there. No one’s coming to rescue them. They can’t escape. There’s no convenient loophole to exploit. Either they can have sex now, or they can wait a day and have sex after they’ve been drugged. That’s it.

She knows the Doctor, clever as he is, understands this too. He probably knew as soon as he read that stupid booklet. But for once, he doesn’t seem very inclined to say anything.

If the Doctor was someone else, Martha would suggest they talk about what they’re going to have to do and how they feel about it. But the Doctor’s never met a conversation about feelings he hasn’t wanted to run away from, as far as Martha can tell, and forcing him to have one when they’re locked together like this seems unfair. Not to mention unlikely to benefit either of them.

“I don’t want to wait for them to use the aphrodisiac,” Martha says bluntly. “Do you?”

“No,” the Doctor concurs. Martha fleetingly wonders what she would’ve done if he hadn’t.

“Then I think we should get this over with quickly,” she says. Maybe if she pretends hard enough, this will be inconvenient rather than utterly awful. 

Probably not. 

The Doctor nods, though his expression makes it look like signing a death warrant. Martha can’t blame him.

She opens the top drawer of the bedside table. There’s no porn in it, thank God – it must be kept somewhere else. She pulls out a bottle of lube and a condom, that latter of which she tosses to the Doctor. 

“Put that on,” she directs. “I’m going to – prepare,” she explains, giving the bottle a slight, nervous shake.

The Doctor turns around without being asked. Martha kicks off her shoes, then takes off her trousers with trembling hands. She tries not to hear whatever noises the Doctor may be making. Her knickers go next, and she feels more exposed than she’s even been, even though her shirt is still on.

She quickly sits on the bed, which is a marginally more modest position. She uncaps the lube and squeezes some on her fingers. She stares at the glob on her fingers, and that’s when the full, awful enormity of what she’s doing hits her. She’s about to lube herself up for her own rape.

Except no, she can’t call it that. Rape implies there’s a rapist, and the Doctor isn’t one. If anything, _he’s_ the unwilling one in this, she thinks, her stomach swooping horribly. He’s not the one who’s been trailing around like a lovesick puppy since the day they met.

She pushes down the guilt. Going to pieces won’t help anything. She spreads the lube over her fingers, lies back on the bed, then inserts one inside herself.

She’s not aroused. It’s hardly surprising, but it’s not helpful for what’s about to happen. She moves it in and out, trying to gently stretch her vagina. She squeezes her eyes shut, and tries not think about the researchers watching. She brushes a finger over her clitoris, hoping it’ll help the process along, but it feels gross and exhibitionist, like something out of a bad porno, and she immediately stops. 

After a minute, she adds a second finger. It’s tight, but she can stretch more effectively now. She gets into a rhythm, and for a moment it almost feels good. Then the reality of where she is and why she’s doing this slams back into her and she immediately feels ashamed, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. 

She adds a third finger. The fit is uncomfortable, but she doesn’t remove it, just squeezes on some more lube with her other hand and continues her slow thrusts. It takes a bit longer this time, but eventually she gets to a point where the fit is, if not easy, at least manageable.

If this were a normal tryst, she’d keep preparing herself. But in this nightmarish scenario, she thinks this is the best she’s going to manage.

She lifts her head up until she can see the Doctor’s head and shoulders. He’s still facing away from her. She can’t tell what he’s doing, nor does she want to.

“Doctor?” she says. She wasn’t loud, but he startles anyway. “I’m ready.” She’s pretty sure it’s a lie.

He’s still for a moment, then slowly turns and walks towards her. Martha quickly tilts her head back so she doesn’t see anything. Not that it wouldn’t be fair, she thinks, since her legs are spread open and he’ll have to look – but it would feel like an invasion of privacy all the same.

“Is this the position you want?” the Doctor asks.

“Yes,” answers Martha. She’d have more control on top, but it would feel like more responsibility. And then she’d have to look at him.

Martha keeps one hand on her vulva, her fingers spread like a V with her vaginal opening in the middle. She moves her other hand to her neck, and fiddles with the collar of her shirt. She waits for the Doctor to touch her, but he doesn’t.

“It’s okay,” she says, and again feels like she’s aiding in her own violation. “Just go slow. I’ll tell you if anything hurts.” She didn’t really need to say it – she’s sure he would be careful no matter what – but she thinks it might help him, for her to give clear instructions. And maybe it helps her feel less useless, too.

One of his hands comes to rest on her thigh, and she suppresses a flinch at the touch. His hand is cold. Then he slowly inserts his penis into her.

Because she hadn’t looked, she doesn’t know what size to expect. It feels bigger than her fingers, and she grits her teeth as the friction burns. The Doctor stops moving before she can say anything. 

“It’s okay,” she repeats. “Just add some more lube.”

He does, and she moves her hand out of the way so he had better access. Then he slowly starts pushing in again. The fit is still too tight to really be comfortable, but the additional lube stops it from burning anymore.

The Doctor settles into a pattern of thrusting in and out, gradually picking up speed as he goes. The increased rate amps up the discomfort, and Martha feels tears prick at her eyes. She closes them, determined not to cry.

“Martha?” the Doctor asks.

“Keep going,” she orders, trying to sound collected. She doesn’t want to stop and then have to start again.

_Just relax_, she tells herself, eyes still closed. _Pretend you want this. It shouldn’t be hard. You’d want this in difference circumstances, wouldn’t you?_

She tries to imagine those different circumstances, tries to imagine being aroused by them, but all it does it make her feel sick. It had been bad enough to have indecent thoughts about the Doctor back when they’d been safely contained in her head, and to recall them now, while he’s being forced to have sex with her, seems exploitative in the extreme.

Martha goes back to staring at the ceiling. She focuses on the small imperfections of the smooth white surface, like if she does that she can ignore what’s happening.

She doesn’t have a great grip on the passage of time by this point, but she thinks it’s only a couple minutes later when the Doctor goes stiff and ejaculates. He immediately pulls away, and she hears him take several steps back.

It takes her a few seconds to catch up to the realization that it’s over. She sits up and sees that the Doctor has turned around again so he can’t see her. She grabs her clothes and all but runs to the attached bathroom.

The door doesn’t lock, but she knows the Doctor would never follow her in anyway. She rinses the remaining lube off her hands (keeping her eyes averted from the mirror above the sink as she does so) and pulls her clothes back on. Only then does she let the panic overwhelm her. Her breathing grows short and ragged, and her knees turn wobbly, forcing her to sit down on the closed toilet seat. _What the fuck do we do now?_ she wonders, and clasps a hand over her mouth so she doesn’t make any noise.

The panic ebbs after a while, and her breathing evens out again. She stands, feeling mostly steady, and splashes some cold water on her face. She still doesn’t look at her reflection.

Then she takes a deep breath, and braces herself to go back into the room where she – where she was –

She doesn’t finish the thought.

The Doctor turns to look at her as she exits, and he’s made himself decent – all his clothing back in order, barely even looking rumpled – but his expression is worryingly unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything to her, doesn’t even look at her properly. He walks past her into the bathroom, where he washes his hands. Martha puts her shoes back on as he does, leaning against the wall for balance. She doesn’t want to sit on the bed again. 

When the Doctor returns, she’s saved from having to think of anything to say by a soft click, followed by the door opening. They’ve been released.

* * *

They take down the Institute before they leave, of course. It’s what they do. For a brief moment during the ensuing chaos it even feels _normal_, like this is another trip where they’ve run across alien malfeasance and taken it upon themselves to stop it. But then Martha brushes against the Doctor by accident and he jerks away like she touched him with a hot brand rather than her arm, and she thinks nothing will ever feel right again.

* * *

They finally get back to the TARDIS, and the Doctor dematerializes them. Once they’re safely back in the Time Vortex with no more distractions, the awkwardness returns in full force.

“Doctor,” Martha finally says, unable to stand the awful silence any longer. “I…” she trails off hopelessly. What can she possibly say in this situation?

She expects the Doctor to say something, to insist that he’s fine, they’re both fine, and frantically try to move on to the next thing. But he doesn’t.

Martha pinches the bridge of her nose, suddenly feeling very tired. “I need to sleep,” she says. “We’ll… we’ll talk later, okay?”

The Doctor gives a short nod. Martha moves to leave, but she’s stopped by the Doctor finally saying something. “Just – wait here a minute first,” he says, then strides out of the console room.

Martha does as she’s asked, though she has no idea what he’s doing. He returns in a minute, holding a small jar. He hands it to her, and Martha notices that he fully extends his arm when he does, keeping as much distance as possible between them. She’s careful not to brush her fingers against his as she takes it from him.

“It’s a salve,” he explains, once again not looking at her. “It’ll help with any… soreness.”

There’s only one place she could be sore. “Thanks,” she mutters, and flees to her bedroom.

It feels like running away. But that’s what they do, isn’t it?

* * *

She showers before she does anything else. It feels like such a cliché, and there’s nothing to physically wash off, but the warm water is soothing, at least. She focuses on cleaning herself, thinking about her body as individual parts – her right arm, her abdomen, her foot – rather than a whole, as she does.

Once finished, she towels off roughly and picks up the salve, skimming the instructions printed on the side. She scoops some out and props one leg up on the side of the tub, so she can reach down and apply it. It immediately helps with the soreness, but even with the different position and different location, she can’t think of anything but how she did this with lube, while the Doctor was only feet away, just a few short hours ago.

She quickly puts on her pyjamas and crawls under the covers. She wants to sleep, to be unconscious and not have to think about anything for a while, but the memories of what happened keep playing in her head, even with her eyes open. All the feelings that she’d pushed down in the moment – guilt, humiliation, shame, rage – swirl inside her and she can’t stop the tears from coming, now that she’s alone and unobserved. She cries with great, gulping sobs that wrack her body and echo off the walls.

She doesn’t so much stop crying as just eventually falls asleep.

* * *

When Martha wakes, it’s to a dry mouth and itchy eyes, along with a dull headache. When she remembers why – the kidnapping, the forced sex, her crying jag – she’s severely tempted to stay huddled in bed. But she can’t spend the rest of her life hiding in a room that isn’t even really hers, so she stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom.

Once washed and dressed, she heads towards the kitchen for food. She doesn’t particularly feel like eating, but she scrambles a few eggs and mechanically puts them in her mouth, chews, and swallows, bite by bite, and feels a little better for it.

She slowly and carefully washes her dishes, knowing that after she’s finished she’ll have no reason to not find the Doctor and have an awful but necessary conversation.

She leaves the kitchen only after the dishes are sparkling and dry, and the counters have been scrubbed down too for good measure, and reluctantly heads towards the console room. She doesn’t know where the Doctor is, but it seems the sensible place to start looking.

Her instincts are right. He’s fiddling with something underneath the console panels, so all Martha can see of him are his legs sticking out on the grated floor.

“Doctor?” she says to announce her presence.

“Martha,” he replies, hopping up, sounding bizarrely cheerful. “Where do you want to go today? Sometime in Earth’s history? You’ve already met Shakespeare, so how about we pop in on Arthur Conan Doyle, hmm? He’s always fun. Or if that’s not exciting enough, we could go to the planet Indigo 3; it has this perfectly symmetrical blue desert –”

“Doctor!” Martha interrupts. She’d expected this, for him to employ his time-honored tactic of ignoring whatever terrible thing had happened in favor of sprinting ahead towards the next adventure, but it doesn’t make it any less jarring.

The Doctor goes silent. After an agonizing moment, he speaks again, no longer full of manic energy. “Do you want to go home?” he asks.

It’s a fair question, but it takes Martha by surprise all the same. “I… I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. 

Then something occurs to her. “Do _you_ want me to leave?” she asks. “I’d understand, if you do.” 

“No, of course not,” he answers, like he can’t believe she would even ask.

“Don’t – don’t say ‘of course not’ like it’s a ridiculous question, I’m serious!” Martha says, her words growing sharp as her frustration and anger finally bubble up. The Doctor isn’t the right target for it, she knows, but she can’t seem to stop herself.

“Why would you think that I want you to leave?” he asks.

“Why did you think _I_ might want to leave?” Martha counters. “Really, why?”

The Doctor looks downright baffled at this. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says.

“Explain it to me anyway,” Martha insists.

“Because I had sex with you when you didn’t want it! I basically raped you!” He’s getting louder now too, and while his words aren’t pleasant, there’s some amount of relief in him finally acknowledging what happened. 

“By that logic, I raped you too!” She means it as a statement of fact, but the words come out anguished.

The Doctor gapes for a moment. “What? Martha, no. It wasn’t your fault.”

“If it wasn’t my fault, then why is it yours?”

“Because I should have been able to stop it!” he all but yells.

“Why? Because you’re the big, strong man? Because you’re the clever Time Lord and I’m just the useless human trailing after you?” she challenges, bitterness creeping into her voice.

The Doctor opens his mouth, then closes it. “You were only there because of me,” he finally says, quieter.

“You invited me to travel with you, but I said yes," Martha points out. “I – maybe I didn’t imagine something like this ever happening, but I knew it was dangerous. I said yes anyway.”

The Doctor doesn’t say anything in response, and part of Martha is tempted to let the conversation end there. But she knows there’s something else that has to be addressed.

“You said that – that it was like you had raped me, because I didn’t want it. But you didn’t want it either; you wanted it less than me, and… it feels like I took advantage,” she admits, looking at her own feet.

“What do you mean,” the Doctor says slowly, “that I wanted it less than you?” 

Martha winces. She had really hoped to never have to say this out loud. “I’ve fancied you since we met,” she says, still staring resolutely at the floor. “Honestly, I thought you realized, or at least suspected. What happened yesterday was awful and I hated it, but in different circumstances, I might’ve…”

She trails off, her face burning in embarrassment. She’s sure the Doctor can fill in what she didn’t say.

“Whatever you might have wanted in another situation,” the Doctor says carefully, “what matters is that you didn’t want what happened yesterday, but you couldn’t say no to it. You didn’t take advantage of me, I promise.”

“I kept telling you what to do yesterday,” Martha says, her voice small. “I basically ordered you to – well. I didn’t ask how you wanted to do it, I just –”

She breaks off, again feeling like she wants to cry.

The Doctor walks towards her, until he’s only a few steps away. “Martha, I was _glad_ you told me what to do. I had no idea, I was worried I would do something wrong and hurt you – giving me clear instructions was the best thing you could’ve done in that situation.” 

“Really?” Martha asks, as she wipes away the wetness gathered at her eyes.

“Really,” the Doctor confirms. Then he takes another step towards her. “Do… do you want a hug?” he asks hesitantly.

Martha nods, sniffling a bit. She shuffles forward until she can lean her head against the Doctor’s chest, and loops one arm around his back. The Doctor brings an arm up across her shoulders, his grip loose but providing enough pressure that Martha feels grounded, even safe. She lets her eyes drift closed, and thinks that maybe they’ll make it through this all right, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is very outside my comfort zone in multiple ways, and I'm not really sure how I feel about it. Any thoughts you have on what did or didn't work would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
